


Colpevole

by Kasuchi



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-21
Updated: 2006-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasuchi/pseuds/Kasuchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sin is commitable in thought, word or deed; so is virtue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colpevole

**Author's Note:**

> The title means "guilty" in Italian. This...is strange. And also for **velocityofsound** 's super-awesome [Major Arcana](http://velocityofsound.livejournal.com/148882.html) Challenge. It's very awesome. Go check it out.

**Greed**

He has always been a greedy man.

He has wanted and wanted and wanted. Maybe some part of him is guilty and that's why he became a doctor. (More likely, he decided he wanted to pick up chicks. Or something. It doesn't matter anymore.)

He wanted his mother to stop her drinking.

He wanted his father back.

He wanted to be a good boy. (Really, he did.)

He wanted to have faith in God.

None of those happened.

He wants still, now.

He wants to move forward, make a name for himself away from the shadow of his father. The long, long shadow of his father. A shadow still cast by a tombstone in a grave ten thousand miles away.

He wants the respect of the grizzled, broken man he works with, a man he sees himself in, even if it's just glimpses of the depressing. Estranged father, brilliance, the hardest cases and the saddest patients - it's his future put before him, taunting him with icy blue eyes and a cane and a pronounced limp.

He wants her. Cream skin and dark hair, she is temptation and he has never been a resistant sort of man. He wants and he needs, and she is untouchable. She is _his_ and she is her own. He has had a taste and suddenly he wants more, inexplicably.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

It is, and he wants.

**Wrath**

They, they cannot touch. It sends all the wrong messages and they aren't allowed that. It shouldn't have been this hard, he grouses, pretending to do the crossword but really just chewing on the end of a pencil in frustration.

He tosses the newspaper onto the table and the pencil along with it. There's no one else around; he is alone in the hospital at ridiculous hours of the morning monitoring a patient that is stable, doing an action that is meaningless.

He sighs and lays his head on the table, cradled in his arms. It's all so clichéd; he's thirty-three and angsting like a thirteen-year-old. There was no affection between him and his father, not after the man left him and his mother to fend for themselves. But loss is loss is loss, he knows, and it's affecting him even if he doesn't want it to.

He hates him. He really does. Hates his mother for being weak, his father for the same reason.

Hates himself for feeling very alone.

**Envy**

He is jealous. Not of _him_ , but of what he has.

He has her, all wrapped up around him, and Chase can't help but feel jealous. No man deserves everything, especially a manipulative bastard (to steal Foreman's nickname) like him. Life may throw lemons, but House was the type to catch them, make lemonade, and then splash it in people's faces.

But then...then he sees her glance at him furtively. A flicker of her eyes under the cover of her lashes at him. For approval? For appraisal?

He watches. She keeps looking at him in quiet moments when there's nothing else to occupy her, when it's busy and she is everywhere at once, when she is typing up the report and he is charting and Foreman is doing Foreman-ish things like ratting out to Cuddy. He bites his tongue and half-heartedly chides himself for ungenerous thinking, but the chastisement sounds forced at best, and laughing at worst.

He can feel a roar building up behind his eyes.

She looks at him with those large, green eyes in the hallway and suddenly he feels that roar come to a climax. He tugs her aside into a hospital room with the blinds drawn and the lights off and presses her against the wall until her back is flush with the plaster and his tongue is touching each and every one of her teeth.

"Chase," she breathes between kisses, looking at him with something like hunger and power in those blasted green eyes of hers.

"Come on, Cameron," he murmurs, nipping at the flesh of her neck that her scrubs aren't covering. "Don't turn into a good girl on me now."

She just moans and arches against him.

**Lust**

He has a vision of her.

Cameron. Beautiful, intelligent, vulnerable.

Unattainable.

But that vision has been cracking, age and knowledge weathering things away. She is intelligent, but she is stupid when it comes to herself. She is beautiful, but she is sharp and hissing inside, from wounds that haven't healed yet, haven't healed properly. She is vulnerable but strong, matching him kiss for angry kiss.

Unattainable is just a word. And words are less than action. Basic maths.

They stumble into his apartment this time, angrily kissing. Their lips burn and sear, their teeth tear at one another. They are destroying each other and loving the ride down.

Shoes discarded by the door that somehow closes, their shirts half undone already, he presses her against the wall. It's his turn to assert dominance. It's his grief this time.

She pushes the shirt off his shoulders, his hands falling back in compliance until it slips onto the floor with a thump and a rustle. Her arms wrap around his torso, tracing the muscles under the skin and making him shiver. He buries his head into her neck and bites down, hard. She'll have to wear a high collar tomorrow to cover his mark, but the gasp that passes her lips makes him smile against her collarbone.

It's her shirt that comes off next, and it falls with a rustle to the floor, followed by her skirt moments after. She tugs on the waistband of his pants, at the belt that she is slowly unbuckling, and leads him to the bedroom, his bedroom.

When she falls back onto the mattress, hair fanning out behind her in soft curls, he crawls on top of her and simply stares. Eyes cloudy with lust, she's smiling up at him indulgently and he is entranced by her.

"Chase," she whispers, and there's a universe in his name. She kisses him hesitantly, understandingly.

He sinks into her and she moans softly, calling his other name - "Robbie, oh..." He kisses her to stop her; the name sounds wrong on her lips and reminds him of whiskey and cigars and long nights wrapped in blankets under pillows to block out the noise and oh and oh--

It's still his moment.

**Gluttony**

He can't get enough of her. It's bordering on the ridiculous.

She is everywhere - behind his eyes, in his eyes, in his touch. He can't stop thinking about her, can't stop feeling her and it scares him. He doesn't do this, doesn't become all touchy-feely like this. He likes it rough, plays with the Big Boys. Why does one woman change everything?

She walks by and his eyes follow her, just as hers traced him moments before.

Her kisses leave him thirsty, and he feels like a desperate, dying man. Maybe he is; maybe the weakness inherent in his blood (or so it seems) is finally upon him, earlier and more ravaging than ever before.

He's almost proud.

She wears a flowing skirt to work and he can't stop obsessing over her legs. That night, he plants kisses all over them, searing ones where the hem skimmed passed the smooth skin. She does't understand and does, and lets him do as he wishes.

He sees House watching her, sees his eyes sharpen as he looks over her. He is not blind and he is not stupid. But maybe he is selfishly ignorant enough to think she's sleeping with someone who doesn't matter, whom she's using to get over him.

Chase knows it's not House she's trying to overcome; it's Him. But he'll never tell.

Never.

**Pride**

They are both too proud and too stupid to keep hiding it well.

Ironically, it's House who catches them, finds them bent over a lab table at two-thirty in the morning in a dead hospital. It's House who looks at both of them - at her - with accusatory eyes. It's House who about-faces and shuffle-thumps away, presumably to the roof.

He is proud, too. Proud that he got what House wanted. That House fails where he succeeds. It's small comfort, and it leaves him feeling pity for the tired man they work for.

In the morning, he is especially cruel. Foreman shrugs it off, but Cameron and Chase accept it silently. It is their punishment to bear for reasons they cannot communicate, but it is theirs and theirs alone. And if they bruise and burn and tear each other apart a little more fiercely it's each their own for the taking.

They are both too proud and too stupid to stop.

**Sloth**

They do normal things. Because just sleeping together isn't enough; they have to have some semblance of normalcy in this...whatever it is.

They watch some throwaway movie and make snarky comments all the while. He traces slow, lazy circles on her back, on her knee. She leans against him despite the armrest, her dark brown hair spilling onto his shoulder like a cascade.

They are quiet. They aren't explosive and set to combust. They are a slow burn, a coil of wax no amount of touchpaper can hope to make explode. They savor and taste and tear and mark and burn and burn and burn and it is brilliant.

He is a moth. She is the flame.

No good can come of this.

They don't care.


End file.
